“So who’s this guy we’re going to see?” I ask Cal.

“He’s a connector,” Cal says. “And he’s a nasty piece of work. You armed?”

I nod. “Always.”

“Good. Me too. Hopefully it won’t come to that, but I’m not sure he’s going to want to cooperate.”

Cal directs me as I drive us down to Riverdale. It’s on the far south side of the city. The neighborhoods seem to get older, poorer, and more rundown the farther south we go. Instead of towering high rises, I see squat concrete apartment buildings, boarded-up businesses, and vandalized bus stops.

Riverdale itself seems sparsely populated by contrast to the downtown core. Most of the area is taken up by rail yards, landfills, and industrial sites, including a massive wastewater treatment plant.

Callum tells me to drive up toward the Union Pacific railroad tracks.

“Right up there,” he says, pointing to what looks like an abandoned warehouse. Every single window is shattered, and the metal sides are layered with what looks like twenty years’ worth of graffiti—color and pattern so dense that it’s hard to tell what any of it is supposed to represent.

“Is the car gonna be here when we get back?” I say skeptically.

“Who knows.” Callum shrugs.

“They still have trains coming through here?”

“Yeah,” Cal says. “A fuck-ton of them. Probably five hundred a day. They get jammed up on the tracks and left overnight. Then guys who work at the rail yard tip off other guys about what’s in the boxcars. And if it’s something worth stealing—guns or TV sets or designer shoes—it goes missing that night. The railways are insured, so they’d rather save money on security versus trying to stop cargo going missing.”

“And your broker here—what’s his name?”

“Zimmer,” Cal says.

“I take it he facilitates the thefts and finds a home for the goods.”

“Right,” Cal says. “Exactly. He’s the middleman.”

We get out of the car, walking across the broken pavement of the empty lot. It’s hard to believe there’s anybody inside the warehouse, but when Cal knocks three times on the metal door, it creaks open almost immediately.

A bouncer both tall and fat silently looks out at us. His head is so big and round that his piggy little eyes are just slits in the flesh of his face.

“Here to see Zimmer,” Cal says calmly.

The bouncer pats us down with hands that are surprisingly small for his huge frame. Even that amount of physical exertion makes him breathe heavily.

“Leave your guns there,” he grunts, pointing to a cardboard box set on top of a stool.

Callum drops his Glock into the box without complaint. I don’t really like disarming in an unknown place, but if that’s the price of entry, I guess we don’t have much choice.

I drop my gun and follow Cal into the dim warehouse.

It’s a strange kind of clubhouse in here. I see several dusty couches and armchairs, and a whole lot of games. A pool table, air hockey, foosball, and three separate TVs with gaming systems. A dozen kids ranging from teens to early twenties are lounging around, killing each other in Call of Duty, and already drinking even though it’s ten o’clock in the morning.